


Where does it hurt, Josh Washington?

by ironicHeadtilt



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Anal, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Wendigo shit, continued universe, face fucking, scifi, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicHeadtilt/pseuds/ironicHeadtilt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where does it hurt,<br/>Josh Washington?</p><p>Where does it hurt,<br/>Josh Washington?</p><p>Where does it hurt,<br/>Josh Washington?</p><p>My body is a vessel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where does it hurt, Josh Washington?

The rattling train rambled towards a small town hidden in the dips of round hills and surrounded on three sides by rocky beaches. Sun light tinted red the distant bungalows, made blood of the ocean and sinew of the trees. For how beautiful the landscape was, morbid candids of finger-mangled faces seemed a much more realistic description than the usual poem of perfect, picturesque; clothed and warm in Polaroids ruined by nail polish remover and pranks three years ago that were usually associated with small bay towns. 

  


He'd been crushed and molded into an entirely new thing that somewhat resembled Josh Washington. A lobotomized, split-brained humanoid with fake teeth and a fake smile to match. That was Rehab I. He had just finished Rehab II.

  


Being held in vigilance by a weary, superstitious town while he pretended everything was fine, that he was just there to relax and use his dad's old atelier to create non-threatening mediocrity (maybe he could start that YouTube channel he always wanted, he mused) didn't exactly put him at ease. He wasn't under any illusion that he was ever going to have a quaint little abode or frequent acquaintances or a dog. He had already prepared himself to exist until something happened and he escaped existence. That's what had been suggested to him and he couldn't imagine a more particularly terrifying and horrible experience for him personally, but that didn't change the reality of it, none the less. Maybe in a few decades, he'd come to terms with it.

  


He hadn't eaten in six months. Drinking, save alcohol, was eight months. He didn't have dates for all of it, though; like his last heart beat, or his last genuine thought or his last attempt to contact Chris or Mike or Sam. Cataloging helped him cope with the vacant feeling in his ribs and he wished he’d kept track of his organ failure, his dying breath, his desperate attempts to get to a phone. 

  


He was addicted to the idea of contact, though he wasn't sure what he'd do if he got it. It scared him, actually, the thoughts that came to mind when he daydreamed about being back at the cabin, alone with them all. He hoped that was the part of him that he'd decidedly left in the mine, that it would pass once he got back into a somewhat normal and controlled environment. 

  


He really doubted it would ever go away.

  


-

-

-

-

  


The sidewalk bustled with people, trendy go-getters with a knack for deception. Wind gusted between skyscrapers, which set the lips of the hoi polloi as they scuttled past glass and concrete, eager to get through their nine-to-five so their weekend plans could begin. Local art students had filled the Central Park with family-friendly sculptures of women in dresses and men reading newspapers. The streets were a blockade of cars which were waiting patiently to arrive at their programmed destinations. Business persons were already face timing their offices from their smartphones, delineating what must be done in a timely manner to stay on schedule and within budget.

  


Threaded through the crowd like a piece of twine knitted into a cashmere scarf, the poor rattled their chains as they walked past their slave masters, returning home from their night shifts smelling like grease and cigarettes. They didn't live in the city. They couldn't afford the rent.

  


Just beyond Oak street, run down houses rotted in disrepair; their paint old and cracked, their windows perpetually dark. Kids played indoors. The grass didn't grow in most yards, which instead had mud and gravel and weeds. Cats scavenged for food and apparently found none; their ribs were prominent under their thinning fur. They reproduced like crazy anyway, adding to the epidemic of felines.

  


A young man drove down the street in a lemon of a car; the rear end of which was weighed down with mismatched cardboard boxes; a joint smoldered in an ashtray in the front. The man had a healing injury on the apple of his cheek, on the bags under his eyes, held together with butterfly bandages. He adjusted the knife taped to his inner thigh coming up on the designated address with a strange clarity despite the fog of weed in the sloppy jalopy. The car turned off like it was never going to turn back on. He took one last pull off his joint with shaking fingers, before opening the door. 

  


Dead grass crowded the curb where the man stopped the car. The front yard was much bigger than those of the houses just across the street; the eyesore no one cared enough to tear down was alone on its own personal block. The house was a Frankenstein’s monster of dated renovations. Parts had obviously been added on since its original conception and the various sections were leaning away from each other, like estranged siblings at a Thanksgiving dinner. The newest addition was over a couple decade old, maybe older.

  


He unloaded his delivery onto a dolly. The boxes clanged with the sounds of glass clinking. 

  


He only had to do this once every couple months and he'd done it quite a few times already, but he still hated approaching the house. It was like approaching a closed casket; he wished he could just see inside so his imagination wouldn't have a hay day. The summer morning was unseasonably cool and mist made the horizon disappear and it felt like he was the only living thing for miles. 

  


The uneven wheels jostled the packages, creating a cacophonous racket which echoed dully off the panels of the house. He winced. 

  


He walked around the house to the back, opened the shed, unloaded the goods and then he was off like a shot. The folklore surrounding the familiar house flashed in his mind, tricking his eyes into imagining things in his peripherals. He walked quickly but quietly until he reached the front of the house, like he was trying to tiptoe around a sleeping guard dog, then he hauled ass across the lawn and didn't stop until he was safely driving away.

  


He checked his rearview mirror, expecting to see something stir in the window, to open the back door, to peel from the woodwork. Like every other time, he stared at a unmoving house. He readjusted the knife on his leg. 

  


The money would be in the mail.

  


-

  


The neighbors noticed the curtains occasionally moved. Never enough to glimpse inside; something would just brush against them.

  


In all legal technicality, the house was vacant, abandoned, but the city didn't care enough to tear it down. It was embedded in blocks of bad neighborhood, called Southside. The Northend, which was the commerce-based city and associated suburbs, expanded Northwest. They didn't care for Southside land because it had been ruined by years of over-industrialization, with crumbling buildings and uncontrollable litter. So as long as the Southside continued supplying obedient fast-food workers and pumping out products from their standing factories, and as long as their crime stayed in their own backyard, Northend left them alone - which meant less strict policing but also less state funding, effectively leaving the impoverished families out to dry.

  


A majority of those innocent families consisted of Latinx Catholics. They were mildly superstitious, thus suspicious of the activities they believed were going on in the “abandoned” house. They'd called the police once to report vagrancy, but they were treated like children and ignored. Their local priest gave regular prayers of protection to those in most contact with the House. The homes which shared a street with the House had scapulars on their doorframes, St. Michael statues in the front yard and a vigil candle in the window.

  


They weren't entirely wrong to want protection.

  


Dust covered the insides of the house and the air was perpetually thick with smoke, smoke so thick it was toxic. The wood floors were desiccated and the carpets were powdery. Many of the rooms hadn't been disturbed in years, their furniture’s colors muted from layers of dirt. Everything was covered in filth and grime and yet there wasn't any sign of animal life. There weren't mouse pellets in the corners or raccoons in the attic. There weren't cockroaches or spiders or flies. It was all dead and dry.

  


Josh flinched, brought into sudden awareness in the fuzzy darkness of his bedroom, his fingers digging into the bed beneath him. He gagged involuntarily, choking, the grey confusion of his wandering mind scattering the reality of his situation. He calmed himself, detaching the physical from the paraphysical. His body was an icon that he was possessing. Pain had no place where there was no mortality.

  


He glanced at the clock, unconsciously trying to clear his throat. He'd gone through his supply too quickly last time; he was gonna have to make this one last.

  


Grey smoke colored the movement of the air when it moved around Josh as he peeled himself from the duvet and stumbled to the vanity. He wiped the mirror of its dust coating, and looked uneasily into his own excruciatingly familiar face. It was like looking at an old painting in his childhood house: dirty, but essentially the same.

  


He brushed aside the emptied pillow and the scissors and the needles and picked up the tweezers. He shuffled his feet, stretching his jaw before keeping it open and leaning forward into the mirror. 

  


His hand, with tweezers held awkwardly, didn't quite fit in his mouth and he gagged again. It was superficially annoying to still retain certain human attributes. Of all the things to remain, his body chose to keep his gag reflex. He moved his grasp to the very base of the tweezers and reached in again, consciously suppressing his natural reaction. 

  


The edge of the tweezers hit their target, but Josh had to pull his hand back out and adjust his fingers. Knowing where exactly he needed to go, Josh fished around with confidence, snagging the blockage.

  


He pulled a dry tuft of cotton from his mouth with a cough. It was connected by spidery strands to the rest still stuffed in his throat. He maneuvered his tweezers and, using his other hand to help, gently tugged until he no longer felt anything obstructing his windpipe. The cotton left his mouth with a push of the tongue. 

  


Agitated, he tossed the removed cotton and the tweezers onto the gutted pillow before falling back onto his bed, resisting a coughing fit as he heaved, feeling the air as it rushed into his unpracticed lungs. It was painful, but altogether wanted. He was real again.

  


“How long has it been?” The back of a hand brushed Josh’s right cheek. Josh turned his face towards the hand, nudging into it, gazing glassy eyes on Chris’s remembered face.

  


“Since what?” Josh asked, monotone and scratchy.

  


“The cotton,” he prompted, his other hand lying languidly on his own bare stomach. He was naked save loose boxers.

  


Josh didn't answer; he couldn't answer. He didn't know how long exactly.

  


“Too long,” came another voice, another hand. Josh didn't turn to look.

  


“Sam-” Josh started then had to clear his throat. Hands tried to push his shirt aside, tried to card through his hair. He got up from his bed, walking measuredly back to his vanity.

  


“It doesn't matter, does it?” Mike had taken his spot on the bed in briefs, lying on his side and snuggling his nose into Sam’s neck. Sam was wearing a blue sports bra and low-ride panties. Chris pressed into Mike, wrapping an arm around Mike’s waist.

  


“It does,” Matt joined Josh in the mirror in boxer-briefs. “We're worried.”

  


“Except there's no reason to worry,” Emily said opposite Matt, holding the scissors from the vanity. Her underwire bra was plain black and matched her plain mid-rise panties. “He can't die or anything so what's there to be worried about.”

  


Ashley sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a lacy pink bra and gossamer lace thong.

  


“I don't know. I think he needs to be more careful.” She said, running light fingers over Chris’s flank.

  


“Careful to what?” Emily challenged, putting the scissors down and wrapping her arms around Josh's torso. “He’s practically indestructible.”

  


“His body is,” Sam said, sitting up. Mike’s head ended up in her lap. Her fingers idly played with his hair. “What about his mind?”

  


“He's survived for this long,” Mike said with a sigh. “He's just in a rut right now. It's fine.”

  


“It's not a rut,” Jessica whispered from the doorway, nipples visible through her thin tank top. “It's an exile. It's a self-quarantine. He's dangerous.”

  


“He's right here!” Josh growled, shoving Emily and Matt away, backing into the far side of the room. “I am not dangerous.”

  


They all looked at him from their various spots; Greek gods judging Achilles. 

  


“Of course you're not,” Mike said, stretching his back. “You just like the taste of cotton.”

  


“Hey.” Sam admonished Mike, pushing his head off her lap. She got up and walked until she was the closest one to Josh. Chris sat up. “Josh, you need to tell someone.”

  


“What?”

  


“She's right, man,” Matt added, taking Sam’s spot on the bed. Mike settled back.

  


“I'm not going through rehab again.”

  


“But you wouldn't be going through the same rehab, dude. The people who worked on your case are definitely dead by now.” Chris said, leaning his chin heavily on Ashley’s shoulder.

  


“No. No.” Josh enunciated. “I'm on the record. If they need me, they'll come for me.

  


“She's not going to stay in the basement forever,” Jessica took a shaky step into the bedroom. “You have to get control of yourself.”

  


“I am in control.”

  


“How are you so sure? Because you didn't sew your mouth shut?” Jessica asked, gesturing to the vanity. 

  


“God, Jess, calm down,” Emily said, laying on top of Matt.

  


“I mean, I'm not perfect,” Josh started, “but I'm not some kinda… some kinda…” 

  


“Monster,” Ashley finished in a low tone. Chris lifted his head from her shoulder. Most eyes avoided Josh.

  


“I'm not a monster.” He recited, feeling somewhere in his memory there was a movie with that same line. “I am not a monster!” He yelled with more conviction.

  


“Shut up,” Emily groaned, casually untangling herself from Matt. “Literally nobody cares.”

  


“So what if you're a monster?” Mike got up from the bed, sauntering straight to Josh. “Why do you care what they think?”

  


Mike cupped Josh's face, placing a soft kiss on his lips before Josh had the mental capacity to push him away. Mike chuckled. Sam’s brow furrowed.

  


“I don't care what they think,” Josh said, backing up until he was against the wall. He slid down, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I care what you think.”

  


“We love you, Josh,” Sam, sitting down on the floor so she was right in front of him. Chris followed, getting down and leaning his head on Josh's shoulder. The others came closer, towering over them in their near-nude state. “You don't need to prove anything to us. We just want what's best for you.”

  


Josh tucked his head into the crooks of his arms.

  


“Give in,” Chris whispered in his ear. “You don't have to be alone.” He nuzzled Josh's neck, lips and tongue trailing lazily across any available skin. Josh turned his head, letting Chris's mouth find his earlobe, his jaw. Sam’s hand ran through his hair, coaxing him out of himself. Her fingers wiped the tears off his cheekbones and her lips found his. His knees were flattening under him as he was pressed into the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  


“Don't touch me!” In a sudden movement, he propelled himself forward, sprinting the length of the room without obstacle, crashing out the bedroom door and stumbling down the stairs. He found himself unintentionally standing at the door of the basement. 

  


It was so suddenly there, the terrible object of his dread and fear, and he wanted so badly to fall into that abyss. His hand gripped the door handle until his knuckles were white.

  


“Shit,” he hissed, releasing his grip and falling back. The house echoed empty.

  


=====

  


“I’m scared,” Josh said aloud, gripping the straps that held him in place. The ground was quickly falling farther and farther away. Crisp Fall air became colder as they traveled higher into the cloudless blue sky.

  


Chris laughed at him, hands folded in front of his own belts. The metal clanged louder and louder, so it seemed, as they neared the apex of the hill.

  


“Just push your feet against the floor of the car,” Chris yelled over the noise. “You'll make it.”

  


Josh jammed his feet hard into the metal grating, squeezing his eyes shut and barking a forced chuckle.

  


“I can't believe you talked me into this, man,” He complained, gripping his restraints with vigour.

  


“Hey,” Chris offered an open palm. Josh seized it, giving it the same love he had been giving the coaster belts. Chris laughed harder as the bottom fell out beneath them.

  


=====

  


Josh swayed between tables, a joint pinched between his fingers. He was portioning out lines of his own personal cocktail of crushed painkillers and opiates with the other hand, occasionally placing the razor on the table and taking a swig of 151 directly from the bottle.

  


He wasn't particularly sure which organs he still had anymore. It'd been so long since Rehab, he imagined all his organs functioning within him. It felt like he had a heart now; even though he was pretty sure that'd been removed. He often wondered where the various things he put into his body went. Anything he put into his body didn't come back out unless he could reach it with his fingers and manually pull it out. It fucked him up a lot to think about. 

  


The sensations of his body were all psychosomatic. It didn't matter what was under his skin, what filled the dark cavity of his body. What he believed to be true and what physical happening did occur were one in the same to him.

  


Substances meant jackshit to his physical being but fucked up his mental, meaning they still supplied whatever relief. There was literally no other reason for him to put something into his body other than that it mentally intoxicated him in some way. He wasn't going to just subject himself to the existential crisis of eating for nothing. He supposed he could make himself hazy if he just concentrated on it hard enough, but it was a lot easier to just buy the drugs. It wasn't exactly like he needed the money for anything else.

  


“I know what I want to do,” Josh said, tapping the table top with his razor. “I know what I need to do.”

  


No one answered.

  


“I’m going to leave,” Josh promulgated, nodding his head before snorting one of the lines. He placed the blunt between his lips, inhaling the sweet-scented smoke. “I'm leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again.”

  


The house remained silent.

  


“I’m taking the rest of the money… And I'm going.” Josh continued in a softer voice, staring down at the two other lines of powder. “Maybe I'll take an actual jet plane. I don't know. I just want to have a little fun, you know?”

  


Chris sighed, sitting on the table Josh had written on.

  


“Why do you always have to show up first, huh?” Josh asked, fists on his hips. “I'm starting to think maybe you have some ulterior motives, Mr. Christopher.”

  


“Could you just stop maybe? This is serious.” Chris said, crossing his arms defensively. Josh looked legitimately saddened.

  


“I have to leave,” Josh slurred, his softer tone revealing his paraphysical high. Chris avoided his eye. “What happens, to you, if I leave?”

  


“I don't know,” He admitted, shrugging slightly. “Maybe we come with you.”

  


“Or you might not,” Josh over-enunciated the T’s, his jaw working against the anxiety and paranoia rising. Chris left the table, coercing Josh against the other table with his intrusion. He, all in bare skin, kept his head down as he reached for Josh. Josh continued: “I have to go. I got to. I want to. Look at me; look me in the eye!”

  


Josh harshly cupped his face, forcing him to look up. Chris’s eyes stayed pointed downward, his hand stopped just shy of Josh's arm. Josh's fingers made indents in Chris’s cheeks and intrusive thoughts made old emptiness void in his chest. Josh scanned Chris’s face then body, completely convinced by his own ruses, unable to discern the colliding uneasiness.

  


“If you're leaving, do it,” Chris prayed, fingers wrapping gently around Josh’s wrists. “Please, Josh.”

  


“This isn't you,” Josh murmured, knowing but not entirely believing. “I can't.”

  


“It's all over soon anyway,” Chris whispered. Josh loosened his fingers, eyes wide. 

  


Josh kissed him, a violent gesture, lips and tongue moving with faux familiarity. He grabbed Chris by the waist, yanking him flush and bowing him back against the table.

  


Josh pulled away just as quickly, tucking his lips in his teeth.

  


“I wanted you to want it,” he whispered, studying the sight in front of him. “I don't anymore. Not the same way. I don't want to ruin it.”

  


“Ruin what?”

  


“What I remember about you. About all of you. About them.” Josh disengaged entirely, rubbing his face. He'd already forgotten the drugs, the weed, the alcohol. He was as sober as ever that quickly. He turned back to the portioned drug and wiped across the lines, messing up their parallelism. “This isn't you. I can't.”

  


“Then what's holding you back?”

  


“Everything ends when I leave. I'm too comfortable here.” Josh pursed his lips, making fists on the table. “If I go, I will die.”

  


“Stop overthinking it,” Chris stated and was gone. 

  


Josh turned towards the basement door again.

  


=====

  


The bonfire flicked embers into the night sky as the waves, thick and dark like spilling ink, licked the warm sand. A young woman plucked absently at a guitar, harmonizing with the nearby wind chimes, her hair falling over her freckled shoulder. Other college-age loungers gathered quietly around, sitting on logs, too tired to interact properly, yet unwilling to leave. Some nursed beer cans, eyes glowing from the soft flame.

  


“My grandma didn't want me to come out tonight,” a young man offered as a topic of discussion.

  


“Why not?” Josh took the bait, sitting in the sand and using the log as an armrest. It was toasty sitting that close to the flames.

  


“She said she had some bad omen dream,” he replied, leaning his head back slightly. “Like she’s basically adamant that the girl that went missing didn't run away like the police said. She thinks there's a killer loose.”

  


“That's not funny,” the girl with the guitar said, “I knew her.”

  


“So you think she ran away?” He asked, an honesty to his joking.

  


“Well,” the girl hesitated, “She could have. She didn't want to live in a small town. Maybe she decided it would be easier to just leave without saying goodbye.”

  


“I think she was killed,” another girl chimed in. She was looking into the fire.

  


“Why don't we just take a vote, huh?” The guitarist said acidically, “I'm morbidly curious to know what you all think about this real life person’s actual living status.”

  


“That's not a bad idea actually,” the grandma’s boy said. “How many of you think she's dead? Show of hands.”

  


“Are you serious?” The girl reprimanded, but hands were tentatively going up anyway until nearly everyone in the circle had hands raised; everyone but the guitarist and Josh Washington.

  


“You think she ran away?” Josh was asked.

  


“I trust the police,” Josh replied, crossing his arms.

  


“So you think she ran away?”

  


“That's what the report said, yes-”

  


“Do you think she ran away, yes or no?”

  


“Yes,” Josh said, an edge of aggression to his voice. “She hated it here. I have no doubt she would leave the first chance she got.”

  


“You know it's really weird that the report said that she ran away,” a previously silent girl offered. “I mean, she's still a missing person so it's still an ongoing investigation technically.”

  


“The police don't have that many resources,” Josh defended, scratching behind his ear. “It's a small town, after all.”

  


A moment of silence followed. The guitarist had stopped playing.

  


“Maybe she killed herself,” a quiet boy said, then looked sorry for saying it.

  


“This is great. I'm glad you brought it up, Kyle.” The freckled girl said, putting her guitar back into its case. “It’s 2am and I'm tired. Goodnight everyone. Josh, can you walk me home?”

  


“Surely,” he said, picking himself up with a tired groan. A chorus of half-hearted “good-nights” ushered them off.

  


They started towards the town, leaving the ensuing awkward silence like a vacuum behind them. Josh took the girl’s guitar off her shoulder. She rubbed her face.

  


“I'm sorry,” she murmured as they continued down the path.

  


“For what?”

  


“Nothing, I guess.” Josh adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “Not on my behalf, anyway. Kyle is such an ass sometimes.”

  


“Yeah, but he's cool.”

  


“He didn't start acting up until you came and challenged his fragile masculinity.”

  


“Well it's really not a surprise,” Josh quipped, stretching his neck. “I am a man’s man.” She laughed a little louder than Josh felt he deserved. “Hey, you said it first. I was just agreeing with you.”

  


“I didn't say you were a man’s man,”

  


“You implied it,”

  


“Anyway,” She cleared her throat. “I think that's why he's so defensive and suspicious of you.”

  


“He's suspicious?” Josh asked.

  


“Yeah, well, I mean… Yeah.”

  


“Why?”

  


“I don't know,”

  


“What for?”

  


“I don't know!” she said, laughing. “Why, what have you done?”

  


“Nothing! God, he's a jerk.” Josh said. 

  


They walked awhile in silence. He kept glancing over at her. She had crossed her arms against the midnight chill, eyes locked on the distance, her expression pinched. Only the moonlight illuminated them; many of the backstreets didn't have street lights.

  


They were standing in the middle of an alley, a block or so from the girl’s house when she turned and kissed him. He failed to kiss her back, but when she rested her cheek on his chest his arms looped around her shoulders.

  


“Do you really think she ran away?” She hesitated. “I mean honestly; don't lie to make me feel better.”

  


Josh adjusted the strap again, avoiding her gaze, one arm still around her.

  


“There's just as much evidence saying-”

  


“No. God, Josh, quit dodging the question. I don't care what you think about the evidence. Tell me the truth.”

  


“The truth?” Josh asked. She nodded solemnly into his chest. “I know she didn't run away.”

  


“You… You know she…” The girl processed it slowly. She looked up at him, pulling away just enough to do so. “Then where is she?”

  


“I sincerely don't know,” he said, shaking his head. “I wish I knew I-”

  


He stopped himself.

  


“Did you see her? Oh my God, Josh, you need to tell the police. They-” His face was cast in shadow, unreactive. “Josh, what's wrong?”

  


He didn't respond.

  


“Hey, it's okay… Josh?”

  


The darkness chilled her. The chimes so far away no longer gave their noise. 

  


“I'm starting to get a little freaked out.” She tried to play it off with a forced laugh. “I’m sure whatever you saw, it wasn't actually her like-”

  


“Can you walk yourself the rest of the way home?” Josh whispered evenly, letting the case slip off his shoulder into his hand to offer to her.

  


She didn't say anything. She stepped back, pursing her lips, then took her guitar and left him.

  


Josh turned the opposite direction and walked away. He walked away, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes squeezed shut and teeth digging into his lip. He walked away, mind racing as he fought an overactive imagination and a killer repression instinct.

  


As soon as he entered his home, he yanked his sweater off and used it to mop the sweat from his face.

  


“What the fuck was that?” Mike asked, pacing the hallway with his hands in his hair.

  


“I- I don't know- I didn't,” Josh stammered, gesturing. “I wasn't going to-”

  


“Uh, uh, uh- quit stuttering it’s freaking me out,”

  


“Sorry,” Josh plopped himself on the floor. “I didn't mean to bring her into this.”

  


“That is literally the least of your worries right now, buddy.” Mike stopped pacing, putting one hand on his hip; the other scrubbed his brow. “I'm trying to fix this and you keep fucking it up.”

  


“Maybe I should call my dad-”

  


“No no no no, that would be a very bad idea. Look, it wasn't even that bad. Just don't do it again. We just gotta get through the next couple months and then we’re basically clear. The police aren't even looking anymore so unless some fucking jogger stumbles upon the fucking body or your dumb ass confesses-”

  


“All right, I get it,” Josh bit, pressing his eyes hard. “I wasn't going to confess. I was just going to return the body.”

  


“Honestly, explain that to me; explain how that's not confessing.”

  


“I was just going to say I found it and then maybe her parents could have some closure, but I guess it's a moot point now because I don't actually know where the body is and it doesn't sound like you're going to tell me.”

  


“No, I'm not, because then you'll just hand deliver it to the police. And you know what the police will do? Ask. Questions.” Mike forgot to keep his voice down and he realized it. He heaved a sigh. “You need to stop worrying about other people, bud. The only person who's gonna help you is you. You think if they really knew who you were that they'd still invite you to have a beer around the fire? Stop pretending they're your friends and start looking out for yourself.”

  


Josh laid down on his back, and stared at the ceiling.

  


“I know.”

  


=====

  


They'd taken a taxi back to Josh's house.

  


“My parents aren't home,” Josh had said.

  


“I'm real sorry to burden you ol’ buddy, ol’ pal,” Mike had said, stumbling into Josh's house anyway.

  


“My sisters are gone, too.” Josh had added helpfully.

  


“I'll just crash on the floor, dude. I'm just gonna-” Josh had grabbed Mike by the front of his shirt and pulled him into an awkward kiss. Mike’s reaction had been delayed, his body not exactly sure how to process this information.

  


Josh had pulled back, eyes glossed.

  


“Sorry,” he had whispered, shaking his head and taking a step back, eyes still on Mike’s lips. “That was weird.”

  


Mike had hooked his fingers in Josh's belt loops, guiding him back towards him. He’d tested Josh's lips again with his own, evaluating the pleasure he’d derived from it. Mike had leaned away contemplatively. Josh's hands had snaked up to Mike’s hair as he’d bit his lip.

  


Josh was straddling Mike’s lap on the couch, his hands undoing his fly as Mike licked into his mouth, eliciting a moan. Mike pulled him flush, loosening and pulling Josh’s jeans down. Josh yanked his own shirt off and tossed it to the side, grabbing Mike by the jacket; pushing it off his shoulders; and pressing him prone into the couch cushions. 

  


“Don't get romantic or anything,” Mike groaned, unzipping his own pants while Josh’s hands slid down his navel. 

  


“You're not my first guy,” Josh breathed, taking Mike into his hand. His fingers were deft and light, barely caressing.

  


“You're not mine,” Mike hissed, kicking off his shoes and lifting his hips to help remove his jeans, which also pressed his prick into Josh's hand. Josh released him, much to Mike’s displeasure.

  


“Then we're on the same page,” Josh dragged Mike’s shirt up to his chin, lowering his lips to Mike’s chest. Mike arched his back as Josh's lips felt their way down, teasing him. He stopped at his waistline, bringing himself back face to face with Mike. Josh removed his own boxer-briefs, and gazed sternly down at Mike. Mike quirked an eyebrow at this.

  


“Easy there, cowboy,” Mike joked, hands feeling the skin on the back of Josh's thighs. He leaned upward, taking back Josh's lips. 

  


An aching grew in Josh's stomach that shook him. He fell into Mike, their lips growing familiar, his hands relaxing into their cushions as he allowed his body to press heavily into Mike’s. He rocked slowly, grinding down on Mike, his fingers hesitantly finding and digging into his hips.

  


“I want to fuck you,” Josh mumbled into Mike’s mouth. “But the lube is in the bedroom.”

  


“Then let's go to the bedroom,” Mike mumbled back. “Quick and easy.”

  


Josh got up dizzily, hands only accidentally leaving Mike’s body. The rich, cavernous living room closed in around them as Josh directed Mike down a hall to his bedroom on the same level, which was nearly the same size as the living room. There was no evidence the room was lived in by anyone, let alone by a teenage boy, with warm colors painting the walls and dictating the decor.

  


“If this’s your parents room, I swear to God,” Mike said, staring at some antediluvian painting of an overgrown garden.

  


“All the rooms are this big,” Josh somewhat defended, not understanding, shuffling through the sock drawer and pulling out a travel-size tube of lube. He pushed Mike onto the bed and nimbly crawled on top of him.

  


“Hey, how many people would you say you’ve fucked on this bed?” Mike asked, shifting self-consciously as Josh slid him out of his boxers. 

  


Josh responded by tersely squeezing a generous amount of lube on his fingers. He made eye contact with Mike, making him squirm, while his other hand gently touched Mike’s knee, signaling him to spread. Mike did so. Josh leaned upwards between his legs and pressed a kiss to his nose condescendingly. As he pulled away, his finger passed across and then into between Mike’s thighs. Mike gasped, legs opening wider and hands clutching the bedsheets.

  


“Jesus,” He breathed. Josh's disconcertingly practiced fingers were quick and rough. Josh's other hand hooked under Mike's knee, enjoying the soft skin and the slick sweat. Mike took a hitching breath, grip finding Josh's shoulder.

  


Josh stopped and looked down at Mike. He realized neither of them were present with each other, that they could've easily been with anyone else; it didn't matter. Josh had already been in this exact position before: on the brink of thoughtlessness - or perhaps past that point - and he always came to the same sudden realization that it wasn't exactly what he wanted.

  


He pushed himself in slowly, knowing he'd kinda skimped on prep but feeling like Mike was a trooper and could deal. Mike's nails dug into his bare shoulder, his jaw straining as he tilted his head back. Josh watched him guiltily; the hand not tucked under Mike’s knee caressed the younger man’s face.

  


“Josh, don't,” Mike groaned, guiding Josh's hand southwards. “Just- touch me.”

  


Josh was fully-seated, his hand again on Mike’s curve. Mike had tensed, his body trembling. Josh wasn't as sure on him as before, a clumsy grasping as Mike adjusted, a shifting which forced a sigh from Josh’s lips. Mike brightened to the noise, moving more as he forced himself to relax.

  


“Oh, God,” Josh whined, halting his stroke on Mike. Mike laughed, brushing fingers through Josh’s gleaming hair. He wrapped his leg around Josh, finding an angle that he liked a lot better. Josh grew confident in his thrusts, rocking Mike’s body to the will of his own.

  


“Oh, fuck.” Mike keened, arching as he came. Josh watched distantly, hazy from his own pleasure. Mike’s eyelashes fluttered over red cheeks, his brow pinched upward. His hand became a fist on Josh's shoulder.

  


Josh squeezed his eyes shut and allowed the ebbing waves to pull him under. His fingers were denting into Mike’s thigh when he came, a held breath he hadn't known he was holding escaping his parted lips. He released Mike’s thigh, and tumbled next to him, his right leg crossed over Mike’s left.

  


A moment passed as they caught their breath.

  


“Oh shit.” Mike whispered.

  


“Yeah oh shit.” Josh flung an arm over his eyes.

  


“Hannah's going to kill me,” Josh groaned, Mike's cum still on his stomach.

  


=====

  


Jessica was sitting on the floor facing the basement door, her hands on her knees. She was like a statue, a figure in prayer. The wallpaper around the door had been ripped off in strips, replaced by yellowed and cracked plaster, haloing Jessica in flat color.

  


Josh stood a few feet away from her, wary to disturb her. He shifted his weight, ducked his head, twiddled his thumbs.

  


“What do you want?” Jessica finally asked, an aggression to her tone.

  


“I don't know,” Josh responded meekly.

  


“Don't lie to me, Josh Washington.”

  


“I want in the basement. And I know that's a bad idea.”

  


“You're right. It's a terrible idea.”

  


“But I was hoping…” Josh trailed off. “I have this feeling.”

  


Jessica glanced at him over her shoulder. She looked so vulnerable, like a wounded animal. On the edge of attacking or breaking down or losing hope. It was the constant wetness to her eyes warbling the lines of her iris, her pupils; the rings of pink that never went away.

  


“Do you really want to go down there?”

“No, to tell you the truth, I don't,” Josh admitted. “But I have this feeling-”

  


“You have this feeling. Do you even really feel anymore? I get that you're like tragic and all that shit, but for fuck’s sake. Feelings… It's been years and you know it.” She went back to looking at the closed basement door.

  


“Call it a hunch then.” He stayed his place.

  


“You're in charge here, not me. If you really want to go down these stairs, you can go. I am not stopping you,” Jessica said, straightening her back and closing her eyes. “But maybe I'm here for a reason. Ever think of that?”

  


“Maybe it's the wrong reason.” Josh said, and Jessica tensed.

  


“I don't want to talk to you anymore,” Jessica said, shaking. “Please go away.”

  


Josh leaned over Jessica, twisting the knob of the door and pushing it open inwards. The stairs descended into darkness. Jessica stared down into it, into the unknown. Josh stood at her back, holding his breath.

  


“Josh, I'm serious. This isn't funny.”

  


“It's not,” Josh agreed. His hand reached mindlessly for the knob, but it eluded his grip. A static was creeping up the steps, surrounding a malicious threat as it limped towards them; Josh could feel it like a breath on the back of his neck. 

  


“Josh, close the door,” Jessica fell backwards into Josh's legs, wrapping her arms around her head.

  


Josh got hold of the knob and slammed the door shut. The hall was unceremoniously calm. Silent. Jessica was still pressed against his legs.

  


“Maybe next time,” he whispered. Jessica was wiping at her face and nodding.

  


======

  


Josh glared at the bottle of Cuervo in front of him. He rested his chin on the table, his arms tucked between his legs. The morning sun slanted in through the kitchen window, creating patterns on the counters and the walls.

  


“Just drink it,” Emily said, arms and legs crossed in the chair opposite Josh. Josh stared at her, eyes studying her.

  


“I shouldn't be seeing you,” he finally said.

  


”They aren't watching you anymore.”

  


“No, they are. They're watching.”

  


“Wouldn't they have checked up on you by now or something?” Emily asked, raising her eyebrows.

  


“There's no reason to check up on me.”

  


“You're here how long and a girl goes missing. They should've been on your doorstep in like two seconds. And like, whatever, it's not like you're their experiment  basically. They need to check up on their subject.”

  


Josh blanched, his eyes widening before dropping back to the bottle.

  


“Just fucking drink it. It's not the worst thing they could find out you’ve been doing in your spare time.”

  


=====

  


“Whatever happened to that YouTube channel?” Kyle asked, his fingers mindlessly filling the gaps between Josh’s. The bedsheet was wrapped around Kyle’s waist, making him look like a cherub from a Renaissance painting. 

  


“What?” Josh mumbled, opening an eye to look at at him; Kyle’s hair was an unflattering mess of tangles.

  


“Your YouTube channel. I never saw it.”

  


“That's because we were never friends,” Josh stated blandly. Kyle bit his lip, smiling.

  


“Yeah, weird, huh?” He chuckled, closing his hand around Josh’s firmly. “You stopped talking about it - your channel, you know?”

  


“I didn't notice,”

  


“I assume you stopped doing it.”

  


“Yes.”

  


“You used to talk about it all the time.” Kyle adjusted his position on the bed, applecheeks dimpled. “It was like it was the only topic of conversation you knew.”

  


“What made you think of it?”

  


“That's a good question. I was just thinking about how different things are.”

  


“Things aren't that different.” Josh was staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling.

  


“They're different for me,” Kyle whispered, bringing Josh’s hand to his lips. Josh turned his head to look at him. The morning light was sifting through the window. Kyle stared up at him, young and naive. Josh hadn’t counted on grandma’s boy being a fresh-faced romantic. Kyle had that puppy dog look, a familiar look, and Josh was finding it harder and harder to let him stay. Josh turned away, submitting to the cheesiness of the situation. He'd made his bed, now he had to lay in it.

  


“I'm leaving town,” Kyle said. “My mom wants me to move back in with her for a while so I can get a better job and back on my feet.”

  


“Oh,” Josh said, his eyes on the ceiling again. “Where does she live?”

  


“I'll tell you… But then you'll have to come with me.”

  


“Come with you?”

  


“As in leave.” Kyle squeezed Josh’s hand. “I'll tell my mom you're just a friend and you can move in-”

  


“Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop right there,” Josh said sitting up and looking down at Kyle. “I'm not leaving town.”

  


“What do you have left here? What's holding you back?”

  


“I'm not moving in with your mother.”

  


“Okay, so it's not ideal right away, but…” Kyle looked worried. “Do you ever plan on leaving?”

  


“No.” Josh laughed, shaking his head. “Are you being serious right now? Your mom’s house?”

  


“Like staying here is any better,” Kyle exclaimed, sitting up. “You're just a loser staying in Loser Town.”

  


“At least I have my own house.”

  


“Who's paying for your house?” Kyle asked, raising his eyebrows. Josh didn't respond. “Whatever. I take back my invitation.”

  


“No need to be dramatic,” Josh sighed, lying back down and chewing his lip. He whispered: “I'm glad you’re getting out anyway… It's dark here.”

  


Kyle didn't respond for a long time.

  


“Can we stop talking about it?” he finally asked, laying a hand on Josh’s stomach.

  


“Fine by me,” Josh leaned forward, pressing his lips to Kyle’s. Kyle’s hand slid lower and Josh arched, his eyes closed.

  


And they were standing at the foot of his bed, tall and naked, eyes focussed on him. Josh met their eyes, looking down the bridge of his nose, his hand woven in Kyle’s hair as Kyle went down on him. His lips parted, a silent gesture; his eyebrows furrowed.

  


He could see them. They weren't real. He could see them, spectators to his antics; observers acting as if he wasn't actively receiving fellatio. And they weren't real.

  


Josh wasn't going to leave town. He rocked his hips forward, gagging Kyle. Kyle’s tongue pressed against his shaft, his hand pressing Josh's hipbone. Josh thrust again, creating a rhythm as his stare became pointed.

  


Chris glared at him. Mike glared at him. Sam glared at him. Jessica. Matt. Emily.

  


Josh glared at Chris as he face fucked Kyle. He raised his hand to his own head. He made a finger gun and pointed it to his own temple, his face pinching as he neared climax. Chris’ face didn't change.

  


Josh mimed a shot to the head. His hand fell to the side, grasping at the sheets as he ejaculated.

  


“Fuck, Kyle,” Josh groaned, grinning.

  


=====

  


Chris, Sam and Josh were climbing down the rocky incline from a back patio towards the warm sand of the beach. The sun was setting red over the water; the other half of the sky behind them was a dark blue. Decorative lights lined railings and hung in the fading light; the stars before the stars.

  


Sam’s eyes were big, eyebrows raised as she looked back at Josh, keeping up her pace until they were at the edge of the water. Chris’ laughter, which had been controlled indoors, was growing in volume and intensity, his hand scrubbing his face, undisturbed by glasses that he apparently left in the house. Josh was a pace behind them, his hands tucked into his damp jeans’ pockets. 

  


“Some people never leave high school,” Josh said, not looking at the showing backs of his friends.

  


“That was embarrassing. That was embarrassing even for high school.” Sam said, looking back at the bungalow.

  


“Yeah, turns out college students aren't exactly adults yet either.” Chris said, plopping down onto the sand.

  


“Or college professors.” Josh said, biting his cheek.

  


“Or people in general; adulthood is a myth actually.”

  


“Mike must be so disappointed,” Sam said sarcastically, joining Chris on the sand. 

  


“Mike's always disappointed,” Chris said, abruptly. Josh glanced at him sideways.

  


“Aw, do you wanna talk about it?” Sam ribbed, taking the elastic out of her hair and redoing her ponytail.

  


“No, I don't.” Chris said, “God, it's just… So obvious the guy’s a certified douchebag and he's still- got all the girls- is all the girls talk about.”

  


“They talk about him drunk,” Josh added, crossing his arms.

  


“They weep about him drunk,” Sam corrected.

  


“I mean… Yeah, but that's because they dated him or wanted to date him or whatever.”

  


“He's a charismatic guy,” Josh defended, shuffling and shrugging a shoulder. Chris fell back into the sand.

  


“Fuck, I'm drunker than I thought,” he complained, scrubbing his face. “You know, I would never gossip about the guy. Like I consider myself a pretty close friend and everything, but he puts off a vibe sometimes. Like he's got some huge ol’ secret.”

  


“I would agree to that.” Sam said, pursing her lips. 

  


“He’s self-conscious,” Josh said, raising his eyes from his shoes. He realized he was the only one standing when both faces upturned to look at him. He looked down at them. “I mean… He cares what others think about him, like, a lot. I feel bad for the guy. He doesn't have anything to be ashamed of and yet he just keeps- covering.”

  


“What about the string of broken hearts he leaves behind him?” Sam asked, more conversationally than accusingly. 

  


“What about them?” Josh responded.

  


“Well, you said he hasn't done anything wrong. He's deliberately toying with these girl’s feelings.”

  


“Yeah, well… No offense, but, most of the time, they deserve it for being stupid.”

  


“Dude.” Chris chided.

  


“Is it not obvious the guy’s not reliable? Didn't you just say that it's so obvious the guy's not reliable?”

  


“I said he was a douchebag.”

  


“Yes, exactly. He's a douche. These girls think they're the exception to his douchey-ness, as if they had a chance to change him. It's stupid.”

  


“That's still his fault. Being naive isn't the same as being stupid.” Chris looked zoned out, his eyes on the fading light of the sky. The beach was darkening, becoming cold. Josh regretted getting his jeans wet; they still hadn't dried.

  


“Well, maybe they should learn from their mistakes. It's just a little heartbreak.”

  


“That's cold, man.” Chris shook his head, a certain knowing in his eyes that Josh didn't like or trust. He wondered if he was imagining it.

  


“Shut up. It's ridiculous the kind of importance girls put on their crushes. They shouldn't be pinning their unrealistic fantasies onto Mike, who clearly has anxiety about living up to the expectations.”

  


“Jesus Christ, Josh,” Chris laughed, suddenly jocund, wiping sand off his arms. “Have you thought about this before?”

  


Sam was quiet, pressing her hand into the sand and looking out at the water. Josh pressed his mouth into a hard line.

  


“Look, I'm not saying- I'm not saying girls can't be upset about-” Josh back-pedaled, a rising nervousness pinching his lungs.”They just need to put it into perspective.”

  


“Why? It doesn't even affect you.” Sam smiled, but it was overtly forced. Josh wondered if she'd been forcing the whole time.

  


“Look, this was my fault,” Chris said, putting his hands up in melodramatic fashion. “I was bein’ petty. I complained first. Josh was just airing his opinion.”

  


Josh was still standing and it was still getting colder. The two in the sand with their blond hair and tanned complexions; younger than him, more stable; were beyond him, chasm walls above him. He was a gray strand of hair.

  


“I'm cold,” Josh said, making sure to cover his bare torso with his arms. 

  


“Maybe we should go back inside,” Chris suggested, getting up from the sand and offering a sand covered hand to Sam. Sam took it, clearing her throat. “Actually, we should probably get going. Josh, do you want to call the cab?”

  


“Yeah, sure.” Josh walked behind them on the way back to the bungalow. They weren't going to go back inside; they were going to walk around. He got out his phone, called a familiar line, said rehearsed lines, cut the line. He couldn't tell if Chris and Sam were whispering.

  


=====

  


Gasoline spread across the wooden steps, darkening the varnish. It pooled in the hallway, and splashed on the walls, soaking the decrepit wallpaper. It dripped down the windows, wiping the dust like invisible fingers. Broken bottles - brown, frosted, or green - littered the foyer, down the hall, in the kitchen.

  


Josh stood at the back door, a raggedy backpack slung over one shoulder. It wasn't heavy but Josh was weighed down by it. The dark of the outdoors, the unfamiliar fresh air rushing into the room, the moon, a pale blush in the bruising of the night sky, made Josh's skin crawl.

  


“I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” Josh breathed deeply. “Or gasoline. Whatever.”

  


He didn't see them and he didn't want to. He would never leave. He lit the match.

  


The house burned. He watched it burn, a slanted light against the night sky, from the edge of his backyard. He could already hear sirens blaring, ripping through the silence of the cold night. He had to leave.

  


He'd planned out his route. He held the map in his left hand. He'd memorized it.

  


He could hear shouting as he turned his back on his home. There was a forest at the edge of his backyard. He stared past the trees. He swallowed hard, blinking too often. He was drifting aimlessly through time, with no point of reference. His lifetime had been dedicated to the preservation of a news clip. He had nothing now. He'd had nothing for a while. Nothing had happened for years. Nothing had happened but he imagined he'd been in on the joke. He hadn't been. He was razor blade sharp in the actual quagmire of shit he'd been avoiding.

  


Out of the corner of his eye, Beth clung to a tree.

  


======

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not finish this. I have an ending planned, but I'm too lazy to write it right now. Maybe someday I'll finish this. For right now, I hope you enjoyed this piece of shit that's probably not even original. I mean, I've read like maybe two Until Dawn fanfics and then decided I'd take matters into my own hands and just... Go for it.


End file.
